


A Game of Murders

by Sunnyskywalker



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV), Miss Marple - Agatha Christie
Genre: Crack Crossover, Gen, Tongue-in-cheek, don't mess with Miss Marple
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-09
Updated: 2018-07-09
Packaged: 2019-06-07 14:46:33
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 750
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15221495
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sunnyskywalker/pseuds/Sunnyskywalker
Summary: Murder isn't a game. But if it were, you wouldn't want to play against Jeyne Marpell. Shealwayswins.





	A Game of Murders

In a stroke of unfortunate timing, Ned’s elderly aunt, Jeyne Marpell, had only just arrived for a visit when Robert came. Now Ned’s attention was all on the royal party and on preparations for the journey south. Still, he ought to spare a moment to let her tell him the news from her small, peaceful holding. Perhaps someone had lost another leg of lamb.

He stepped into the courtyard in time to hear Aunt Jeyne say, “—and so you see, if it hadn’t been for the hat, he might never have been found out.” She was knitting something white and fluffy. Surprisingly, Sansa and Arya were both staring at her with rapt attention (Sansa embroidering a handkerchief, Arya holding a tangle of thread and cloth). How Aunt Jeyne had gotten Arya to listen to a tale about a hat must have been a tale in itself. 

“It’s good to see you all well,” he said, marveling at the domestic tranquility his aunt had induced. “Have you everything you need, Aunt Jeyne?”

“Oh, yes, I am very well indeed. Such delightful children you have, and Lady Catelyn has been ever so welcoming. Your daughters have been kind enough to listen to an old lady’s stories.”

“Much better than listening to Sansa sigh about perfect Joffrey’s perfect golden hair again,” Arya muttered.

Sansa turned pink and opened her mouth, but Aunt Jeyne cut in first. “So interesting, the way children take after their parents. I’m reminded of Carynne Slate. She had lovely golden hair, and her husband so dark. The children all had hair as bright and shining as their mother’s, and everyone knows that dark hair usually means stronger blood and so the children usually resemble their darker parent, except sometimes when their grandparents or great-grandparents were fair, but the Slates have been dark as far back as anyone remembers. And then of course it turned out that Carynne had been making a fool of her husband—with the septon, if you can believe it, and he was nearly as fair as a Targaryen.”

Ned frowned. “Surely you have more edifying stories for my daughters than the old shames of good families.”

Aunt Jeyne looked at him pityingly. Ned felt suddenly like a foolish boy, though he didn’t quite know why.

“Yes, tell us more about—hats, Aunt Jeyne,” Arya said. Sansa brightened, then glanced hurriedly at Ned before focusing intently on her embroidery. Guiltily, almost, but this was Sansa. Still, Ned felt he was missing something. What manner of hats could interest Arya so?

But he had so much to attend to, and she was a sweet old woman even if she did gossip. The girls clearly liked her, which must be all to the good. “I won’t stand in the way of such a thrilling tale. I’ll see you all in the Great Hall tonight.”

That feeling that he had missed something stayed with him, though, no matter how firmly he turned his mind to his duties. He tried to dismiss it. If it were truly important, it would come to him.

***

Jeyne sighed as her nephew hurried away. She would have to talk with him about the ostensibly royal children later, and about his nephew too. (How had he gotten away with that deception for so long?) She doubted he would listen, but she really ought to try, even if dear Ned always did have more honor than sense. Now, how much to tell the girls—that was another question. Perhaps a few more stories of the little mysteries she had encountered over the years would awaken them to the dangers around them.

“Young people have no idea how much wickedness there is in the world,” she said. 

“Oh, but there are so many good knights and lords and ladies, too!” Sansa said.

On second thought, perhaps she had better go south with them. Someone had to watch out for these sweet summer children.

Jeyne shook her head. “Life is not a song, my dear, unless it’s one of those ballads where a woman goes to wash and a beggar accuses her of having children by various relatives and murdering them. People are much the same everywhere, from the smallest village to King’s Landing. Why, some of the stories I know about King Robert—well.” She paused. “Perhaps not just yet. Let me tell you of the time Tobin Cerwyn, uncle of Lord Medger, fell dead in a weirwood grove from a knife wielded by no human hand….”


End file.
